


Give me anything

by Reformed (GarGoyl)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Battle at the garbage dump, Blood and Violence, Cat Ears, Crush at First Sight, DNA manipulation, Hinata is one nasty shrimp, Kenma is kinda shy?, Knives, Kuroo is the ultimate make-up artist, M/M, Professional Fighters, Slave Hinata, Slavery, adamantium implants, although it's one-sided at first, and not quite what you'd call a crush, but it is something, but twisted, crow wings, entertainment fights, motor oil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 13:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18053186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarGoyl/pseuds/Reformed
Summary: Sci-fi & entertainment fights AU! Two-shot (sort of spin-off prequel of my other fic, The King Will Fall).Upon being faced with the new private match arranged by his father, Kenma Kozume thought his ‘line of business’ couldn’t get more disgusting and demeaning. And he clearly didn’t expect to encounter any excitement in the person of his opponent, who will make him forget about everything else. Or in other, far less craftily chosen words, Kenma and Shouyou square off in a very twisted and literal version of battle at the garbage dump and Kenma has a crush at first sight.





	Give me anything

**_Give me anything_ **

Hello everyone! It’s me, procrastinator and starting-other-things-instead-of-finishing-what-I-should author extraordinaire ;) So here’s the deal – while I was doing some ‘research’ and constructing the details of the AU from the other fic in my mind, I stumbled over the cover of volume 36 from the Haikyuu manga (which I haven't read and tbh it's a daunting task) and Hinata’s absolutely creepy smile just spelled **p.l.o.t. b.u.n.n.y**  (so basically the knives, the garbage, the cats and the crows, none of that were my idea; the motor oil was though, sorry not sorry :P)

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, here it is:

https://www.reddit.com/r/haikyuu/comments/akis6u/haikyu_volume_36_cover/

* * *

 

“This is pretty big, I think. The client wouldn’t say anything about his guest, but if he’s willing to spend so much money on a _concept fight_ I’d say it must be a business deal… Could you look up, please?”

Kenma doesn’t pay any attention to the endless blabber of the raven-haired make-up artist (Kuroo or something?), instead thumbing his video game in concentration. It’s his only relief and an active means of not thinking of what’s coming.

He fights when he has to and his strong technique and analytical abilities - which more than make up for the slight lacking in power and stamina - make him a proficient fighter too. But unlike most professional fighters Kenma feels no excitement in battle – and very rarely fear - and his apathy towards it dampens even the adrenaline rush more often than not. He seeks no glory either, it’s just a job his family has pushed him into and which, occasionally, sucks hardcore.

Like now.

“Is this necessary?” he asks the brunet who tilts his chin up, interrupting his game, and begins to work below his lower eyelid with a blending brush.

He must already have a ton of black kohl around his eyes and now some dark red eye-shadow is smudged over it, to make the coloring match his red and black striped leather breastplate. His outfit leaves his arms bare, unprotected, as well as a portion of his legs, between the loose leather shorts and the knee pads fitted atop the knee-high combat boots. Wearing shorts in a combat is stupid enough in itself, but that’s only the beginning – an equally black cat tail is attached to their back and a pair of fluffy black ears has been pinned into his hair.

The _concept fights_ are a huge trend lately in private matches, the novelty being that there’s some sort of ‘scenario’ involved, meant to turn plot-less violence into an almost theatrical performance. Of course, Kenma has heard that the clients often prefer to customize said scenario to their fantasies, but since this is his first fight of this kind, he hasn’t imagined it would be _this_ fucked up.

“So… what’s the _concept_?” the blond asks warily. The make-up artist must know for sure, every detail must fit in after all. And as stupid as the whole thing might be, it’s important if there’s a special setting of the battleground involved.

“The battle at the garbage dump,” Kuroo replies with a sigh, running a hand through glossy, upwards-styled hair. “It was the guest’s desire apparently… Like, one day he saw a stray cat and a large crow fighting atop a pile of trash and he was so very impressed by how determined and fierce they both were that he stuck around to see which would win. But then someone threw a new trash bag at them and they ran off, leaving the match unfinished.”

Golden eyes fixate upon the tall brunet leaning over him with a dumbfounded, unblinking stare.

_…what the fuck?_

“You mean… the ‘story’ is that I’m fighting someone over _garbage_?”

R.I.P ‘prince saves princess from evil sorcerer’ and ‘hero fights villain to save the world’, this is a whole new level of cringe-worthy.

Still, Kenma fails to grasp just how mind numbing the whole thing is until he’s being led out on the ‘battleground’, which turns out to be a large indoors space (probably some old industrial hall from the past century) where trash and various debris and scrapped fixtures have been piled up, surrounded by a high platform where the audience seats are. The only difference from a real dump is that most trash is fake and neatly tied in plastic bags so it doesn’t stink, because really, that would have been the end of it.

The blond is deaf to the cheering and clapping of the relatively small crowd of spectators, pondering on how uneven and probably unstable the ground really is, something one could barely even walk onto, let alone _fight_! The trash bags could be slippery or deflate under his feet, the debris might slide and the broken fixtures thrown around, some quite sharp-edged, could easily cause injury.

“Okay, here’s the deal – as you know, this is _not_ a fight to the death, so the one who makes the first cut wins,” a member of the staff tells him, opening a box which contains Kenma’s only weapon the client has chosen for the match, a short, broad hunting knife, the upper side of the blade wickedly jagged.

It is fairly light though and the handle fits snugly into the boy’s fingerless glove. Still, a knife is an above-average dangerous weapon, because one has to get quite close to deliver a blow and defeating their opponent is unlikely with just a scratch, one has no choice but to inflict serious damage. And this just adds extra pressure and difficulty to the fight, because he can’t do that now.

Then, as he looks up towards the platform on the opposite side of the ground, Kenma sees _him_.

The blond isn’t very tall himself, but the other boy is even a tad shorter than him and looks younger too. That’s hardy an advantage for Kenma though, because even if his body is small and lithe it is also muscular and the outfit similar to Kenma’s reveals the thin, silvery scars of adamantium implants on the boy’s biceps, forearms and thighs. Also, the fact that he’s ‘wearing’ his scars in such a visible fashion (Kenma’s forearm implants are buried deep and the scars healed to perfection) makes it obvious that he’s a slave ‘produced’ especially for professional fighting. His appearance is designed to be striking too – the short, spiky ginger hair sticking out against the full-black outfit with small raven wings attached to the back of his shoulders – and his large, amber-colored eyes are circled with black-and-gold makeup, made to ‘run down’ on his cheeks.

“So that’s the crow… They should have dyed his hair black though,” one of the staff members observes, as the blond is ushered down from the platform and onto the ‘ground’.

While Kenma steps down carefully, wary of not spraining an ankle from the very start, the slave boy simply hops down into the trash instinctively finding solid footing, and tilts his head to the side with a creepy smile worthy of an angel of death. The knife is impatiently weighed in his hand and the blond leans forward slightly, in wait. He will let the other come at him and, hopefully, make a wrong move.

The ginger wastes no time and lunges forward with a powerful leap, jumping high over something his opponent has yet to see and reaching the top of a pile nearby, from where he suddenly kicks a wooden frame in Kenma’s direction. The older boy falls backwards in surprise while dodging it, because it hadn’t occurred to him to use any of the stuff lying around as ‘props’. It’s a dirty move too and Kenma doesn’t do dirty moves, even there aren’t technically any rules.

Instead he moves away and to the side, keeping close to the wall, knife held steadily in his hand. He needs to make sure there’s something to lean against if he loses his balance, although maybe the ground is not as unstable as it looks if the other hops around so carelessly without a single wrong step.

Thinking time is short though, because the slave boy is done playing – he advances towards his opponent and suddenly throws the knife from his right hand to his left, a moment before his right fist shoots forward aimed for the blond’s face. Kenma dodges again, swiftly slipping to the other side and kicking the back of the other’s knee. The ginger loses his balance and drops on his backside with a grimace, and Kenma tries to grab his shoulder with his free hand – if he can keep the boy down long enough to put the knife to his neck maybe this shit match can be over.

But the other rolls away with lightning speed, out of his grasp, the only thing the blond can get his hand on being one of the black feathered wings, which tears clean from the ginger’s shoulder, making the audience gasp and cheer loudly, as if he’d ripped an actual part of the boy’s body.

For the briefest moment Kenma himself is taken by that sick fantasy and drops the fake appendage as if the surprisingly soft feel of it was burning his hand, before his reason kicks in to point that tearing a real bird’s wing would take significantly more force that that shitty costume. The bad feeling is completely gone when he also gets kicked in the stomach – the price of spacing out like that – and his back hits the wall.

The other’s knife is back into his right hand, but before he can make a move Kenma pushes away from the wall, rotating gracefully on one foot as his heel catches his opponent in the jaw. And then again, square in the face. Still, the other boy barely stumbles and is upon him again, the hand with the knife pushes against his face and the blond suddenly panics. This is not a fight to the death, yet the other is going for his face?! Again the fucking story – the cat has claws, so does the crow and… and birds go for the eyes… what if the slave has been instructed to try _take out his eyes_?! He really wouldn’t put anything past the fucking client!  

“No, don’t!” he squeaks in horror instead of thinking of defense, and the other’s hand hesitates, withdraws even, so that he can slip away and try to run.

Backing himself into the wall was a mistake and Kenma takes the risk of distancing himself from it, only to stumble onto some piece of concrete and collapse forward, falling face-first into a torn truck tyre. And fuck, does that hurt. But the time-out is over, the redhead pursues him while snorting some of the blood running from his nose, and before he can scramble back onto his feet the other stomps hard onto his ankle.

Sickening pain shoots up Kenma’s leg, forcing a groan past his lips. He hauls himself up though, using his knife hand as support while his free one picks up the large piece of tyre he’d fallen onto and hurls it at his opponent. Still, the other is not deterred and the motion makes the blond lose his balance and fall backwards.

And then, suddenly, he finds himself slipping down a small slope and discovers what it was the slave boy jumped over in the beginning - it’s a large puddle of something black, motor oil by the smell of it. Before he knows it, Kenma sinks in up to his waist, the greasy liquid seeping into his clothing. This is really bad news – his hands are all slippery, he can’t grab onto anything to climb back up and he doesn’t get the time for pointless struggles either. Looking up over his shoulder, he sees the redhead circling the pool of black liquid, fists clenched and teeth gritted.

Panting and wide-eyed, Kenma backs into the pile of trash behind, because he knows exactly what the other will do next. Namely jump right in with a big splash that gets them both drenched, nearly on top of him. He raises his arms in defense, only to have the knife hand immobilized and the slave’s weapon inching towards his neck. The blond’s anxiety soars – even if there are two referees on the match, what if his opponent was told to kill him after all?! It wouldn’t be completely impossible! His free hand fists and slams repeatedly into the other boy’s jaw as the other is pushing down on him – albeit the movement is awkward because it’s his left hand – oil and blood smearing on his gloved knuckles.

It doesn’t have much effect thought, so in despair he goes for the ginger’s hair, fingers gripping a fistful and yanking with all the force he can muster. The next moment the iron grip on his weapon arm loosens up a bit and Kenma doesn’t think anymore, simply twisting his hand and thrusting the knife into the other fighter’s ribs with enough force to pierce the leather breastplate and go all in, hilt deep.

One of the referees blows his whistle – the match is over – but the blond only gasps loudly as something warm gushes over his glove and runs down his bare arm and above him the other boy freezes, pupils widening visibly. His arms drop limply to the sides and so do Kenma’s, although he’s still reluctant to let go of the knife just yet.

“I-It’s over,” he stutters, voice reduced to a mere whisper. “Let’s just stop now…”

The redhead seems to finally snap out of it, begins to nod slowly and then, without warning, headbutts Kenma straight in the face with all his remaining strength. The older boy only hears the sickening crack of his own nose and feels his legs give out with the dizziness before he slips under into the black liquid and everything goes dark.  

* * *

 

“Oh damn, all of my hard work is ruined…”

Kenma’s eyes flutter open to discover the raven-haired make-up artist leaning over him with a soft sponge. He’s lying on a makeshift bed and several members of the staff fussing over him. ‘I nearly drowned in that awful shit and all you care about is _make-up_?’ he wants to scream, but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Your nose is broken too,” Kuroo goes on to say. “Pity, you were so cute… And that was against the rules, what the hell? The match was already over!”

“Oh well, that’s ‘Mad Dog’ Hinata for you,” someone says and Kenma flinches. “He’s got quite a reputation for being a nasty little shit.”

So… _Hinata_. The boy’s name is Hinata.

And suddenly finding out his opponent a name brings about the realization of how bad this fight has really been. Kenma might be a professional fighter since he was thirteen, but he is also a free man, he can choose his fights, he can keep himself safe. He’s never fought a deadly match, he’s never had to kill or been in danger to be killed, his father would never ask that of him. But out there Hinata gave his all because for him this is not a _sport_ , he’s used to fighting for his life. This was the first time he’s fought a slave, someone who has nothing left to lose, and it was _scary_. And an odd sort of _exciting_ too.

“Is he-…will he be alright? Hinata?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. The Oikawa family has a great ‘maintenance’ team and they’re very good at patching up their ‘glam products’, wouldn’t let all the work put into them go to waste.”

Kenma doesn’t really know about these things, he’s never cared, but now he wants to find out, his curiosity finally aroused. He wants to see Hinata again, and, if possible, study him. And if the boy is a ‘glam product’, that might just be possible.

* * *

 

 


End file.
